Love Him or Leave Him Read online

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ she exclaimed defensively, sheer panic making her even refuse to accept such an awful possibility. ‘I don’t believe it. It isn’t possible. I put the letter in the post-box myself, first class. I—I saw it. I know I did!’ He didn’t say anything. He just looked expressionless, except for a slight, sceptical lift of the eyebrows.

  ‘Mr. Jerome, why don’t you believe me?’ she cried, in angry desperation. ‘The Post Office has been known to make a mistake.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hemming,’ he said dryly. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen to remind you of the fact. But—so have you.’

  ‘Oh!’ She stared at him, with something between reproach and horror. ‘You think that because I made a mistake once, I’m bound to make other mistakes.’

  ‘No, my dear,’ he replied, only the ‘my dear’ didn’t sound quite as it had when it had pleased her so much. ‘No, I don’t think that. If I did, I should never have employed you again. What I do think is that, in comparing your past record with that of the Post Office, I’m bound to believe that the probability of error is with you.’

  ‘I know it must seem like that. I know it must.’ She almost wrung her hands in her distress. ‘But I assure you, Mr. Jerome, it wasn’t so. It isn’t just that I’m insisting I couldn’t have made a mistake. I actually remember putting the letter in the box. I—I gave it a little pat for luck.’

  And, at the recollection of her happy, proud reflections on that occasion, Anne actually caught her breath on a sob. ‘You—what?’ he said.

  ‘I g-gave it a pat for luck,’ Anne repeated. And, so excited and distressed was she that, to her great mortification, she began to cry.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t do that,’ Mr. Jerome exclaimed, with some irritation.

  ‘I’m—sorry.’

  ‘Well, so am I,’ said Mr. Jerome unexpectedly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you as much as this. Of course I’m confoundedly angry and disappointed about the whole thing, but—’

  He stopped, because Anne was crying harder than ever. Not, strangely enough, because Mr. Jerome was angry—she could just bear that—but because he was disappointed.

  ‘I didn’t forget to post it. I didn’t—I didn’t,’ she insisted, almost childishly.

  ‘Don’t cry like that, child.’ He reached out and, taking her hand, drew her to his side, and then, since there was nowhere else for her to sit down, on to the arm of his chair. ‘It isn’t worth it.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ she contradicted him, with a little gulp. ‘It was nearly the biggest contract we’d ever had. Mr. Pennerley said so. It was terribly important. And it was important in other ways too—to me. I had a chance to show that I could do good work, and—and redeem that mistake I made. And then you were—were so pleased. And I was so happy and—proud.’

  The usually autocratic Mr. Jerome looked nonplussed. In silence, he handed her a large, clean handkerchief with which to dry her tears. But the silence was a troubled, rather than a critical one.

  ‘You say you actually remember putting that special letter in the box?’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘There couldn’t be any mistake?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hm. Then I don’t know that there’s any more we can say about it.’

  It was generous of him, but she felt horribly, hopelessly uncomforted. Whatever he said by way of comfort—and it was something that Mr. Jerome really wanted to comfort her—it was inevitable that he should reserve the right to think that, in some way, she was responsible. His good opinion of her was too new and small a plant to stand up to quite such a shock.

  ‘How did you know—I mean, how are you quite sure—that Firth & Farraday didn’t receive the letter?’ she asked presently, in a timid tone.

  ‘What’s that?’ He came back from something of a reverie. ‘Oh—Pennerley happened to run into Edgar Firth the day before yesterday. And without any prompting Firth asked him why we hadn’t interested ourselves in the possibilities of the contract. He even went so far as to say that they were specially on the look-out for our application and estimates.’

  ‘Meaning that we should probably have got it, if we had applied?’ Anne went pale again.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mr. Jerome looked moody.

  ‘Oh, how awful!’

  ‘Well, don’t harrow yourself afresh,’ he said. ‘At least we know that Firth & Farraday are favourably disposed towards us for future business.’

  ‘We knew that already,’ Anne insisted sadly. And she thought that, so far as she was concerned, no future business would ever make up for the contract they had lost.

  For one thing, she could not imagine that she would ever again have anything to do with a Jerome & Pennerley application for a contract. Come to that—her heart nearly stopped at the thought—she could hardly expect that they would even want to receive her back into the firm now. The very incident on which Mr. Jerome had based his offer had, apparently, proved her more untrustworthy than ever.

  She wondered if she ought to say something about that now. Then she knew she ought.

  ‘Of course,’ Anne began—and, because she was so nervous and miserable, she sounded stiff and unfriendly, ‘of course, this rather alters things, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What things?’ inquired Mr. Jerome bluntly.

  ‘Your—your offer. Naturally, I don’t expect you to—take me back now. Back into the firm, I mean,’ she added, feeling suddenly that, without the mention of the firm, her words sounded uncomfortably like those of an erring wife addressing a disillusioned husband.

  He frowned. ‘But I thought your whole argument was that you were in no way to blame for what has happened.’

  ‘Yes—it is. But’—she drew a deep breath, before putting into words her unhappy conviction—I can’t blame you if, in your heart, you think I probably was. It’s a little hard on you, in these circumstances, to be expected to—to show a special mark of your approval.’

  He laughed. A short, not unfriendly laugh, which showed appreciation of her reading of the situation, but not complete acceptance of it.

  ‘There’s something in what you say, of course,’ he agreed with candour. ‘At the same time, I haven’t forgotten that, but for my having been’—he cleared his throat slightly—‘rather hasty and unjust with you in the beginning, there would never have been any question of your having left us. I think, Miss Hemming, we must just leave things as they were and—try to forget this unfortunate business.’

  It was as much as the most indulgent employer could be expected to offer. It was far more than Anne could ever have expected from Mr. Jerome in the old days. But, while she murmured her thanks, she felt no lightening of her heart.

  She didn’t want Mr. Jerome to be sorry for her, or indulgent towards her, she thought rebelliously. She wanted him to think her valuable and reliable.

  And how that was ever to happen again she could not imagine.

  ‘Well,’ he said briskly, ‘suppose we make a fresh start now. There are several letters for you to take.’

  Mr. Jerome then dictated his letters in such a calm and matter-of-fact way that Anne felt her own agitation and strain lessening. She was able to concentrate on what she was doing, and not until he had finished and she was free to go downstairs to type back her notes did she allow her thoughts to wander afresh over the disaster which had overtaken her.

  Once she was alone, however, in the small room which was regarded as her office, Anne gave herself up to the luxury—although a melancholy luxury—of going over exactly what had happened, without the added agitation of having to explain and excuse herself as she did so.

  She had too much natural good sense to believe that anyone—herself or anyone else—could be specially dogged by ill-luck. She had always thought that what some people referred to as ‘bad luck’ or ‘just my luck’ was usually nothing more than carelessness or lack of efficiency.

  But could anything but the most fantastic ill-luck re
ally explain what had happened?

  That this very letter—the one which had reinstated her in Mr. Jerome’s good opinion and ensured her return to his employ—that this letter, out of all the letters which the Post Office carried daily, should have gone astray. It was inconceivable!

  For a terrible moment, Anne even wondered if she could possibly have been mistaken, when she claimed to remember posting that individual letter.

  But no. In her mind’s eye, she could see again the scene when she stood in the rain beside the country pillar-box, holding a handful of letters—mostly of regulation size—and the one long envelope which contained her afternoon’s work, and the hopes of Jerome & Pennerley.

  Of course she had put it safely in the box. It was simply absurd to suppose that anything so important could have slipped to the ground and escaped her notice. Her whole attention had been focused on it.

  Beyond doubt, unless she were mad, the letter to Firth & Farraday had been posted.

  Then—short of accepting the idea of a malignant fate—what could have sent it astray? Not just delayed it, but made it vanish?

  With a painful thump of her heart, Anne suddenly thought of the possibility that she had addressed it incorrectly.

  But almost immediately she rejected the idea. She knew Firth & Farraday’s address nearly as well as her own. She had often had occasion to write to them during her two years in the office. In any case, she had checked and rechecked the envelope.

  Other people might—undoubtedly would—decide that that was the explanation. But she could not and would not accept it herself. She knew.

  Resignedly, she pulled her machine towards her, and prepared to start work.

  As she did so, there was a discreet little tap on the door and Deborah came into the room.

  ‘Hello. I thought I heard you in here,’ she said, and her voice was slightly hushed, as though for the funeral of a distant relative. ‘I’m so sorry about this business of the contract. I know how upset you must be.’

  For a moment, Anne could feel only anger and chagrin that Mr. Jerome should have told Deborah. But she realised almost immediately that the disclosure must have been made in the angry hour or so before she herself had put in an appearance. No doubt Mr. Jerome felt he must express his fury to someone, and Deborah had been the nearest person.

  In his present mood, Anne thought—and, on the whole, she probably did Mr. Jerome no more than justice in thinking so—he would not have told Deborah or anyone else.

  However, the disclosure had been made, and some sort of answer had to be made to Deborah. So Anne said rather stiffly:

  ‘Yes. It’s dreadfully unfortunate, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course, we all make mistakes at some time or other. I told David so,’ Deborah explained earnestly.

  Anne felt herself flush, and with difficulty restrained herself from saying rudely: ‘Oh, you did, did you? Thank you for nothing.’

  Aloud, she observed, rather coldly:

  ‘It has been known for the Post Office to make a mistake.’

  ‘The Post Office?’ Deborah’s tone indicated that this was an entirely new theory, so far as she was concerned. ‘Oh, I don’t think it could have been the Post Office, do you?’

  ‘I don’t see what else can have happened.’

  ‘O-oh,’ Deborah said. ‘David and I thought perhaps—’ She hesitated, as though not wishing to hurt anyone’s feelings.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you thought that I was responsible,’ Anne completed her sentence for her dryly. ‘I have explained to Mr. Jerome that it just wasn’t possible. I think he is quite satisfied of the fact.’

  This was going a little further than she was entitled to go, perhaps, but Anne was determined to wipe that smug look of sympathetic doubt from Deborah’s face.

  ‘I see,’ Deborah said. ‘Well, I’m very glad, of course, if you have been able to—clear yourself.’

  She didn’t sound glad, however. She sounded as though Anne had tried to sell her something sub-standard, and failed.

  ‘I’m afraid I must get on with my work now,’ Anne told her, making a considerable business of putting paper into her typewriter.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Deborah paused just a second longer. ‘You are going on working for David, then?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Anne replied crisply. ‘Did you think I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Oh—no, not exactly,’ Deborah said, and took herself off, with a very thoughtful expression.

  Anne looked after her.

  It was not difficult to follow Deborah’s train of thought. She might murmur sympathy, but she was exceedingly glad that Anne had been discredited. Indeed, her one regret was probably that it had not been a more thorough business.

  ‘If she’d kindly undertaken to post the letter for me, or something of the sort, I should know where to put the blame,’ Anne thought grimly. ‘She’d have sworn she posted it, but that she thought the address looked a little odd. I wonder—’

  For two or three minutes longer, Anne sat there thinking instead of typing. For the idea had come to her that perhaps, in some way, Deborah had managed to intercept the letter.

  But full consideration of the facts made it impossible to accept this likeable theory. The letter had gone into the post-box. One could not get away from that. After that point it was difficult to see how Deborah, with the best will in the world, could have interfered.

  However, it was worth remembering for the future that Deborah’s ill will had by no means evaporated. This incident had clearly shown the hollowness of her recent friendliness.

  It was not until the evening that Anne saw Robin, so that she had time to work out just how—and how much—she would tell him of what had happened.

  However, he had actually sat down opposite her at the dinner-table before he said, with his usual cheerful lack of self-consciousness:

  ‘I’m awfully sorry about this business of the contract. It was hard luck.’

  Anne flushed angrily.

  ‘Is there anyone Mr. Jerome has not told?’ she inquired sharply, because she felt so very sore and wretched about the incident.

  ‘David? David didn’t tell me,’ Robin said, and handed her the menu. ‘Deborah did.’

  ‘Oh, I—see. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ Robin assured her good-humouredly. ‘As a matter of fact, when I spoke to David about it myself, he was quite rude and told me to mind my own business.’

  ‘Did he?’ Anne said, appearing to study the menu, but really savouring the delicious sense of satisfaction which came over her at the mention of Mr. Jerome’s rudeness.

  ‘He said something about the Post Office having slipped up, or some such nonsense,’ Robin continued carelessly.

  ‘I don’t think that’s nonsense,’ Anne retorted defensively. ‘I don’t see what else can have happened. After all, letters have been lost in the post. Anyway, if it was not lost in the post, Robin, what happened to it?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Robin replied cheerfully. ‘I suppose you did post it?’

  From anyone else that question would have been enough to make Anne get up and leave the table. But Robin asked it in such a nice, matter-of-fact way that Anne knew she had only to reply, in the same tone, ‘I’m perfectly certain I did,’ and Robin would be satisfied.

  So she made the expected reply quite calmly, and Robin nodded reflectively.

  ‘Then my guess is that they have a careless post clerk at Firth & Farraday’s,’ he said.

  ‘Why, ye-es. I suppose that is possible,’ Anne agreed doubtfully. ‘But it’s very difficult to lose something completely after it’s come into an office, you know.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Well—yes. There’s usually a record book. And whoever keeps it has a simple routine which would make it almost impossible to chuck away a letter with several enclosures in a moment of absent-mindedness. I can’t imagine that at a place like Firth & Farraday’s such a thing could happen.’

&
nbsp; Robin looked unimpressed.

  ‘It’s the only suggestion I have to make,’ he said.

  And Anne felt so grateful to him for not even hinting that perhaps she was the culprit, after all, that she felt it was only kind to give his theory lip service. So she said: ‘Well, it’s a possibility, I suppose. I wish I knew the post clerk at Firth & Farraday’s.’

  ‘I’m sure an introduction could be arranged,’ Robin replied, with a grin. ‘You move in the right circles for an approach to be made. At least, I mean, if you’re going back to work in David’s office.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Anne said quickly. ‘Oh, Robin, do you mean you think I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Good heavens, Anne dear, I don’t think there’s any matter of conscience or duty about it. Of course you should, if you want to and if David agrees. I just thought—David might turn sticky. Not that I think he’s entitled to, but—’

  ‘Yes, he is entitled to,’ Anne admitted, with a sigh. ‘Being David—Mr. Jerome, I mean—he can’t really make himself accept anything but the most probable of several improbabilities. In other words, though he’s been awfully nice about it, and even done his best to appear to accept my protestations, I know it must seem to him that I’m the most likely culprit. It’s wonderfully good of him, in the circumstances.’

  ‘David isn’t inclined to be “wonderfully good” in that way,’ he remarked dryly.

  ‘But he has been. I told him that I quite understood this might alter his plans about me. And he just refused to discuss the subject—said we would leave things as they were.’

  ‘Did he?’ Robin sounded interested. ‘Then he must feel fairly sure it wasn’t your fault. David isn’t the kind to be either sentimental or quixotic where his business is concerned. He might be sorry for you, if you were distressed. But David would have to like someone very, very much indeed before he would allow concessions in his business.’